"Look'ee here: no doubt you'm 'mazed, but that's a curst foolish trick,
all the same. Be that tangle fast, you'm holding by?"

The man made no sign of comprehension.

"Best not trust to't, I reckon," muttered Zeb: "must get past en an'
make fast round a rib. Ah! would 'ee, ye varment?"

For, once more, the stranger had tried to thrust him off; and a struggle
followed, which ended in Zeb's getting by and gripping the mast again
between him and the wreck.

"Now list to me," he shouted, pulling himself up and flinging a leg over
the mast: "ingratitood's worse than witchcraft. Sit ye there an'
inwardly digest that sayin', while I saves your life."

He untied the line about his waist, then, watching his chance, snatched
the rope out of the other's hand, threw his weight upon it, and swung in
towards the vessel's ribs till he touched one, caught, and passed the
line around it, high up, with a quick double half-hitch. Running a hand
down the line, he dropped back upon the mast. The stranger regarded him
with a curious stare, and at last found his voice.

"You seem powerfully set on saving me."

His teeth chattered as he spoke, and his face was pinched and
hollow-eyed from cold and exposure. But he was handsome, for all that--
a fellow not much older than Zeb, lean and strongly made. His voice had
a cultivated ring.